


She Called Him Ben

by orphan_account



Category: Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anidala but it's not happy, F/M, Faked Deaths, Forbidden Love, Obidala
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-04
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2020-04-07 14:46:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19087201
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: ***This is a re-posting of a deleted fic.***She called him Ben. He called her Ami. Each time they met—the first time, in her apartments, then sometimes in a Coruscanti gallery, other times in an Alderaanian cafe, and even once in a casino on Cantonica—they agreed it would be the last time.





	She Called Him Ben

**Author's Note:**

  * For [QueenOfCarrotFlowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenOfCarrotFlowers/gifts).



> Hey what's up some people have tracked me down to ask about some fics I wrote that they missed when I killed my account. By request, I am reposting some of them. I won't be checking for comments or anything else on them, since I don't really participate in the fandom much anymore.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy these in good health, and be kind to each other in the comments ok?!
> 
> ~(TAFKA)SC

* * *

She called him Ben. He called her Ami. Each time they met—the first time, in her apartments, then sometimes in a Coruscanti gallery, other times in an Alderaanian cafe, and even once in a casino on Cantonica—Ben would swear to Ami through kiss-swollen lips that it would be the last time. Each time he swore, she would agree, whispering in his ear that the last time should be the best time, her silky voice darkening with need and sending his desire racing. Each time, he would linger over her, committing all of her to his memory once again; each time, she would bask in the uncomplicated admiration and bliss of his embrace.

(It was never possessive, oddly; it wasn’t that he needed her by his side always, but simply that he couldn’t stay away forever, the strange, elliptical orbit that she seemed to pull him into one that he couldn’t quite bring himself to want to escape. For her part, she seemed to value his freedom as much as hers, knowing that they were intertwined just enough that he would return. It might not have been the Jedi way, strictly speaking, but whom could it harm?)

Their trysts were only ever that; Ben and Ami didn’t go to the opera, nor to plays, nor even out to dinners. Those kinds of public-facing activities were left strictly for Senator Padmé Amidala, champion of the Republic, and her Jedi advisor, Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi—and his padawan, Anakin Skywalker as often as not. The presence of Anakin was an unwelcome complication, both because of what he  _ might _ see and because of what he  _ did _ see. The attempts on the Senator’s life meant that her advisor and friend became her bodyguard, and they were in one another’s company more often than either would have thought possible—or desirable—and she tried to send them away, but the Council doubled down on the need for her safety (why hers, specifically?, she wondered), and insisted they remain.

Then, the Council sent Obi-Wan away anyway, and things took a truly nightmarish turn for Padmé. Anakin somehow turned right and wrong on their heads and while her more maternal side bled inwardly for the lost and hurt boy who just wanted his mother, her entire being curdled away from the spirit of vengeance, the blind wrath, and the possessiveness that would control everything (and destroy anything it could not control) in order to have what he wanted.

Ami had never wished for the strength and safety of Ben’s arms as much as she did in that moment, and when the chance came to go to him, she seized it without consideration of the consequences. Padmé’s desperation turned to outrage, and nearly to panic, when Anakin tried to persuade her not to go. His fury burned hot and cold, at one moment saying that Obi-Wan was jealous of him and holding him back, and in the next moment, that Obi-Wan was like a father to him—yet he would not lift a finger to help his ‘father.’ It was a mother alone that he wanted, nurturing and coddling without boundaries; ‘father’ was a concept associated with discipline and control, one met with petulant resentment. Padmé had to convince Anakin that he was doing it for her, that he had to save Obi-Wan in order to keep her safe, and Maker forgive her, she had been willing to do anything it took—including that.

(No, it was never possessive between Ben and Ami, but on the surface, it could have appeared to be so. The Senator was ready to risk everything for the Knight. The Knight knew of the Senator’s increasing discomfort with the padawan’s growing obsession. Obi-Wan did his best to steer Anakin away from that path—which tended to mean putting himself as a barrier between them. To the galaxy’s sorrow, both Senator and Knight were ill-equipped to advise or assist a young man who was willing to latch on to any woman who cared about him, a young man who lacked the wisdom to understand that mothers and lovers are not interchangeable.)

The night of the disaster on Geonosis, Obi-Wan was finally forced to admit to himself that something fundamental had changed. They should never have come, so why had they? The Council would never have authorized it, and Obi-Wan couldn't believe that Anakin would knowingly, willfully put Padmé's life in danger. Therefore, the only reasonable conclusion (if you could call it that) was that the ordinarily risk-adverse Padmé (the woman had repeatedly employed body doubles, for Force sake!) had gone and done something completely irrational to try to save Obi-Wan's life. 

Padmé might have done something uncharacteristically foolhardy, and she may not have been a Jedi, but she  _ was _ uncommonly perceptive, and she was no fool. To explain the truth of why they'd come—to declare her feelings to Obi-Wan—would alienate Anakin in a moment where their lives were already at risk and too much hung in the balance. The jealous, obsessive possession that swirled through Anakin’s Force signature whenever he looked at or thought about Padmé made clear that he would destroy them both if he knew. Thus, Obi-Wan had watched Padmé proclaim her love to Anakin, but felt her thinking only of  _ him. _ Then, in the trio’s escape from the ring, Padmé had gotten too close, had touched too intimately. Padmé’s desperation to reach him, to save him, to be with him, could be nothing but romantic attachment. It was the only reasonable conclusion: Padmé had somehow fallen in love with him, in spite of their promises. 

Obi-Wan walled off his emotions even further than before, attempting to hold himself to Ben’s promise that the last time had been just that; their arrangement had become too much of a liability to both of them, and so much was at stake. It was, to his shame, part of the reason that he had been willing to leave her behind, delivering to Anakin the lecture he needed to hear himself. It was part of the reason that he sent Anakin to escort her home, rather than going himself; while he knew how deeply uncomfortable she was with Anakin, he told himself it was for the best, another expedient sacrifice that would keep Anakin with the Light, however tentatively. What else could he do? She had put her life at grave risk, something Obi-Wan could not allow to happen again. (This was an irony he would not fully appreciate for years to come.)

The next time that he did what he said he would never do again, Ami and Ben met in the Takodana lake country, at a tiny hut where they lingered for a whole two days. This time, Ami told Ben of Padmé’s secret marriage to Anakin, and there was a poignant bittersweetness, a melange of all the things he was not supposed to feel. Yet despite the bittersweetness, this too was a gift in some ways — at least until Anakin proved as unwilling to trust in Padmé’s counsel as he had been to trust in Obi-Wan’s.

(In the end, Obi-Wan blamed himself for their marriage — for the fact that both felt they had no alternative — and he kept their secret, yet another in the growing list of decisions he would come to regret with all his heart. Initially, he had thought it his penance for his darker emotions: his hubris in failing to heed Padmé’s misgivings, his fear of his own feelings, and the shame of his inner conflict — of wanting so badly to give himself completely, to walk in the radiant light of her love, yet believing that all of him must belong to the Jedi Order alone.)

Even now, the ‘last time’ wasn't, but they met infrequently, only when they could both be certain that they would not be suspected or missed. Therefore, the simple fact that Ami reached out to Ben mere weeks after they’d been together on Hosnian Prime was cause for concern. The message was an unexpected blow.

**_The last last time_ **

**_Same place as the first last time_ **

**_Two standard days_ **

The way that Ami greeted Ben was as hungry as either could have wished for, and yet there was something different about her. He sensed a certain plenitude, but underneath, nervousness and fear. She had sought out his embrace before to soothe her fears, just as he had sometimes allowed the comfort of her presence, of her body, to relieve the burdens of war. It was not until she pulled the warm weight of his palm down over the soft swell of her belly that he understood, and the Force made itself known in twin sparks nestled safely within. They were a miraculous fusion of both lovers’ signatures in the Force with something altogether unique at the core. The sparks strained toward his touch, radiating innocent joy in the presence of the ones who had made them. 

This was a complication for which both parties had been utterly unprepared. Ami was married to a volatile, jealous man; Ben was expected to be celibate. To make matters more precarious, this was the third year of war, with no end in sight. He ran his fingers up and down her bare arms, feeling the shape of the implant under her skin while he grappled with both the consequences of her news and the reality of what the Force had shown him. Ami wept, fearful of the separation she knew must follow. Separation for a time was the least price they could all pay. Ben’s heart, so taxed after years of restraining his feelings, bled. That night, they agreed, had to be the  _ last _ last time that he would seek solace in the softness of her breasts and the gentle touch of her fingers, the  _ last _ last time that she would take comfort in the shelter of his arms and the heat of his mouth.

She kept their secret until her body forced her to reveal it. Anakin had somehow been both jealous and ecstatic, a truth which grieved her deeply. The longer he was at war, the less capable he seemed of unspoiled happiness; the nightmares of her death and his grim ambition to defy them were testament to that, and she grew sick with fear. He was so obsessed with  _ her _ death, but seemed to care nothing about whether  _ her baby _ would live. Could it be that he resented her pregnancy? Would the baby be safe, once it was born? She could say nothing without risking exposure, and as the weeks passed, she came to dread him, and long for the warmth and freedom of Naboo. 

Obi-Wan watched in horror as the holo showed the younglings dead in Anakin’s wake. He grieved for each of the children, but two yet unborn loomed largest in his shattered heart. If Anakin suspected, even for a moment, the truth of Padmé’s children, the jealous rage of his blackened soul would mean their deaths. Obi-Wan could deny himself no longer, overcome with a need to see with his own eyes that Padmé lived. When he went to her apartment and the droid said that Anakin had already been there, his blood had run cold. Then  _ she _ had appeared, and he took consolation in their survival, but the truth of what Anakin had done shocked her to the core. Perhaps it should not have, given his rage on Tatooine, but these were his own people, the children who knew him and had trusted in his protection! How could she trust him with her own children?

At first, Obi-Wan misunderstood her feelings, and stumbled through the idea that perhaps the children were Anakin’s offspring after all, that he had misinterpreted what the Force had shown him months before. The pain on her face as she looked away from him told him that he was wrong, and worse, that he had wounded her. He apologized, realizing that his feelings were unable to be restrained and that his judgment was clouded by fear, and walked away to try to clear his head. For all their sakes, he needed to find some objectivity before it was too late for any of them. Padmé, heartbroken at Obi-Wan's apparent desertion, boarded her ship determined to make the best of what seemed her only option—namely, to go to Anakin and try to save him from his own darkness, praying that the love she could give would transform him from a fighter into a father. It was a desperate gamble. Realizing almost too late what she intended, Obi-Wan snuck aboard her ship, making himself known to her not long after she reached the hyperlanes. He touched her shoulder gently as he sat beside her. She reached up to take his hand, her gentle fingers guiding his across her rounded belly. When she finally turned to face him, she had tears standing in her eyes, but her smile was brilliant. All Obi-Wan could feel was her relief, mingling with his own. She had been bereft and alone, facing Anakin’s growing darkness without the Force to draw on, and the way that Obi-Wan had avoided her after Geonosis, the apparent ease with which he had let her go even after she had revealed her pregnancy, had convinced her that he would never place her—or their children—above the war or the Jedi Order.

Obi-Wan’s shame was intense, but his unrestrained love was far more potent. Once she understood that she was not alone, that Obi-Wan was with her and that she could trust both their hearts and their safety to his care, she wept with both joy and grief. She had known, in her heart, that Anakin’s salvation would only ever be in his own hands; no one could do it for him. Even if she had fully embraced the lie that her children and her heart were his, he would still have had to release his fears and possessiveness—he still had to _choose_ Light. She mourned the boy from Tatooine, the one who missed his mother and wanted a family of his own to love. She was determined, however, to live for her children, nightmares be damned.

Galactic history books record that Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jedi Master and Republic General, died with Senator Padmé Amidala when the ship that they were piloting toward Mustafar exploded due to a hyperdrive malfunction. While the people of Naboo and her allies in the Senate mourned her passing, and those few who still revered the Jedi were left reeling at the slaughter that was Order 66, their deaths were just two of thousands that day, unremarkable to most of the galaxy. It was therefore unsurprising that no one paid any notice when Ben Kenobi, a friendly, sandy-haired man in his mid-30s, and his heavily pregnant wife Ami appeared in Dantoo Town. Ben was a pilot who was looking for someplace quiet and peaceful for the birth of his children. Ami would simply stroke her belly and smile, a serene look in her doe eyes, and people forgot to ask her anything about where they were from or the kind of work that she and her husband had done before.

It was there, in exile on the forest planet of Dantooine, that Ben would learn the most important lesson: giving oneself in love and service could never be a thing of Darkness. It was the only path to the Light.

  



End file.
